


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by dasseinhundin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Minor Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Stranded Together, Swearing, minor shallura, self-indulgent trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasseinhundin/pseuds/dasseinhundin
Summary: “Keith, buddy, pal, friend, amigo, my guy—”
  “What?”  “You see, oh benevolent friend of mine, you A-plus guy, you, you rocker of shitty 80’s haircuts—”  “Lance—!”  “I’m kind of locked out.” Lance's flight home for the holidays is cancelled due to a snow storm, he's locked out of his apartment, and the only one who's still around is Keith. Not exactly the way either of them thought they'd be spending their Christmas, but hey.





	1. And since we've no place to go

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, my first fic contribution to this fandom is self-indulgent trash. Huge shout outs to Trish and Bethy for encouraging me to actually write this and for generally being total enablers. I love you both, and I blame you entirely.

“And her _croquetas,_ holy _shit_. I don’t know how my Abuelita does it, but her croquetas are a gift from _God_. I’m pretty sure she adds a pinch of crack, because it’s literally impossible to not eat like, fifty of them in one go—”

 “Lance,” Pidge interrupts, “I know you’re excited to get some home cooking, but you’ve been talking about your grandmother’s food for like, 20 minutes now.”

Lance shrugs, smirk entirely unapologetic as he takes a swig from his peppermint mocha latte—the one that he had Keith put three extra pumps of mocha in, the _heathen_. “Pidge, if you ever tried my Abuelita’s homemade rum cake, you wouldn’t blame me.”

Keith rolls his eyes from behind the counter, bending back over to continue his task of cleaning the espresso machine; a time-consuming task that usually leaves Keith’s hands feeling cramped and reeking of coffee grounds. But the repetitive motions of rubbing down each part of the machine is soothing in a way, so he falls into a steady rhythm as he listens to his friends chat at the table nearby. A soft, jazzy rendition of “Silent Night” flows quietly through the store’s sound system. The shop closes in about fifteen minutes, so the place is deserted save for them, and Keith cherishes the small bubble of warmth the atmosphere creates.

“Speaking of twenty minutes,” Matt pipes up from his seat beside his sister, “We should’ve left like an hour ago. We’ve got a seven hour drive ahead of us.”

“Why don’t you guys leave tomorrow? It’s almost eleven.” Shiro asks as he takes a sip of his coffee.

 “Matt doesn’t wanna get caught in that storm that’s supposed to hit tomorrow,” Pidge responds around the rim of her drink, the coffee mug almost comically large in her small hands. She’s almost nineteen, but between the oversized cups of the coffee house, the large glasses perched on her thin nose, and the giant green knit sweater that pools over her hands, she looks like a toddler. “It’s already on a collision course with the majority of the east coast, so our parents are worried we’ll get caught driving through it if we wait too long.”

Lance takes a sip of his sugary insult to actual coffee, tapping his long fingers against the tabletop in beat to the music. “Dude, that storm’s not supposed to hit until tomorrow night.” 

Matt shrugs. “You never know with storms like these. I’ve heard four or five different times about when it’s supposed to get here, and I’d rather not chance it.”

“That’s fair.” Shiro agrees, stirring more cream into his cup of decaf. He turns to Allura, who’s pressed against his side, hands wrapped around her mug of chai tea as she scrolls through her phone.

"My weather app says that there’s about a forty percent chance of snow by 2 am tonight. They’re predicting over two feet by Monday.”

“Yikes, have fun with _that_.” Lance laughs. “While all of you guys get to freeze up here, I’ll be chilling on the beach working on my tan.” Lance says, leaning back in his seat.

 “I like the snow,” Pidge pipes up. “It’s kind of nice, especially around the holidays.”

“Yeah, but driving in it isn’t.” Matt says. “Speaking of, we really gotta get going. Mom’s going to have a conniption if we don’t let her know we’ve left soon.”

The two stand to leave, making their rounds around the table with hugs and well wishes for the break. Keith watches fondly while he puts the rest of the store’s cups away on the shelves. He flips the counter’s top up when it’s his turn for a hug, apologizing for how nasty he must be right now. He’s been on since four, and hopes he doesn’t smell as gross as he feels.

“Oh shut up, you nerd. You smell like coffee grinds. That’s like, the smell of angels.” Pidge says, squeezing him tight around his middle. He laughs and returns the hug, patting her head affectionately. She glances up at him through her large lenses, brows furrowing. “You sure you don’t want to come with us? Our parents said you’re more than welcome. You can help me kick Matt’s ass at cribbage when my great aunt comes over.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Keith smiles. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

 “I feel bad.”

 “Don’t, seriously. Besides, I have to work, anyway.” He assures her.

He doesn’t mention that the thought of going home with Pidge and Matt for the holidays makes him terribly anxious, or that the thought of having to give the inevitable explanation to a bunch of strangers about why he’s with them instead of his _own_ family makes him feel like he’s about to break out in hives. The pitying glances of pretty much everybody who asks him about his Christmas plans ( _none_ ) is enough. He’d rather not have to explain over and over again that he doesn’t have plans because he doesn’t have a family to make them with.

 Besides, now he can finally catch up on that reboot of _X Files_. Silver linings.

Pidge squints up at him, frowning. “If you spend your entire break in your apartment watching Netflix, I’m going to personally shave your head.”

Keith chuckles. “I won’t, I promise.” Which isn’t technically a lie, since he plans to go to the gym. That counts as leaving his apartment. 

Pidge seems appeased by this, letting him go so he can give Matt a quick hug as well. “Stay in touch, okay? Just because we’re not all going to be here doesn’t mean that you get to drop off the face of the Earth like some hermit.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “There is no pleasing you two, is there?”

“Nope,” Pidge grins, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as they make their way towards the door. “See you losers next year!” 

The rest of them wave as the two depart with a chorus of ‘ _have fun_ ’s and ‘ _be safe_ ’s. Lance hollers at Pidge to refrain from drinking a carton of eggnog in one go this year, and she flips him off before the door swings shut and they disappear down the street.

Allura makes to stand next, Shiro following suit. “We should probably head off ourselves,” She says apologetically. “We have an early train to catch. Which reminds me, Keith, you’re still more than welcome to come with us.”

Keith sighs, ducking back behind the counter to finish wiping down the equipment. “Thanks Allura, but really, I’m fine.” He insists, grabbing a clean towel from over by the sink area. He takes his time soaking it beneath the faucet, not wanting to deal with the combined Concerned StareTM of the group parents. “I kind of like being on campus on break. The quiet is great, and Coran gives me time and a half at the shop.”

 He can almost hear the two’s concerned frowns, but he hears Allura sigh in resignation. “If you’re sure,” She says, collecting her purse. 

“Very.” He confirms, mustering up his most reassuring grin. He’s probably not as convincing as he hopes to be, but neither she nor Shiro push the topic any further. Instead, Allura leans over the counter to pull him into a hug, arms tight around his shoulders.

“You take care of yourself while we’re gone.” She says, tone motherly and warm. It makes Keith relax a little as he returns the embrace as best he can with a counter between them.

“I will,” He smiles.

Shiro actually ducks beneath the counter to come over and hug him, squeezing him tight. “I don’t know why you won’t just come with us,” He mutters, though not unkindly.

Keith would be lying if he said he isn’t tempted. It’s just going to be Shiro, Allura, her father, and Coran, so he doesn’t have the same overwhelming anxiety that he’d had when considering Pidge and Matt’s offer to come home with them. But at the same time he knows how close Allura is with her father and uncle, and the gathering feels much too intimate to intrude upon. He knows that nobody would question him, that everyone would do their very best to make him feel welcome and included, but Keith feels like the hospitality he’d be getting would just make him feel that much more out of place. 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not spend the break watching you and Allura make kissy faces at each other in front of your future father-in-law.” He teases, grinning when Shiro’s cheeks pink. “Seriously, Shiro. I’m good. You and Allura have fun.”

Shiro’s still frowning, but he doesn’t ask again. Instead, he just gives him another hug and a solid pat on the shoulder, and a request to Skype them regularly. Keith happily agrees, waving them off with the promise that he’ll try to eat something other than Bagel Bites and Pop Tarts during the break.

The door’s bell jingles as it swings shut, leaving only Keith and Lance in the café. He leans an elbow on the counter, narrowing his eyes when he notices that his feet are propped up on the table. He’d just wiped them down, dammit.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving too?”

Lance leans farther back in his chair, slurping his latte as loudly as possible. “I’ve still got half a drink to finish here, my friend. And Lance McClain leaves no coffee un-drunk.”

“Well either hurry up and chug it or let me pour it in a to-go cup, because I want to leave.”

“Fine,” Lance says. He drapes himself over the counter, pillowing his head on his arms while Keith empties his mug into a paper cup. “Can you top it off? I’ve gotta leave for the airport in like two hours, and I think I’m gonna die.”

“Your fault for going out instead of going to bed early.” Keith says, popping a lid on. “Besides, I’ve already wiped down the machines and I’m sure as shit not doing it again. Hit up Starbucks when you get to the airport.” 

Lance lets out a disappointed whine, hopping up to sit on the counter. “But they don’t put love in it like you do, Keithy baby.”

“If you call me that again I’m going to spit in this.” 

Lance grins up at him, taking his cup. “See? How’s Starbucks supposed to compete with that?”

“Get out or I’m locking you in here.” Keith deadpans.

 Lance cackles as he hops back down, blowing him a kiss. “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone.” He says. 

“Don’t get second degree sunburn again.” Keith responds, leaning out the door. 

“That was _one time!”_

“ _Goodbye_ , Lance.”

Lance gives him a fist bump, smiling. A strange something tugs in Keith’s chest, but he stomps it down just as quickly as the feeling comes. “Later, Keith.” He says, and with that he starts his trek home.

 Keith flips the lock behind him and hits the main lights after watching Lance disappear down the sidewalk. He looks around the empty shop, the background noise of Christmas music now entirely too loud in the silence.

 

* * *

It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from the café, but by the time Keith gets back to his apartment, he’s freezing. His fingers are numb as they dig around in his jacket for his key ring. He bounces from one foot to the other to try and warm himself up as he unlocks his door.

The moment he manages to get his door open, Keith kicks off his shoes and beelines it to the radiator on the far side of his living room. He cranks the knob as far to the right as he can, sighing in satisfaction when the old radiator clangs to life. He doesn’t bother turning on any of his lights, maneuvering around his couch and coffee table in the dark to pad into the bathroom and start a shower.

Keith turns the hot water up as high as it’ll go, knowing full well how long it takes for the water to get to any remotely habitable temperature. He shucks off his clothes and brushes his teeth, taking his time until he sees steam begin to swirl around the tiny bathroom.

He wastes no time stepping beneath the spray. It’s nearly scalding, but it feels good on Keith’s icy skin so he sits and basks in it before reaching for the soap. This is one of his favorite parts of being one of the few people left on campus: most of the other tenants in the building have left for the break, so he can use as much of the hot water as he likes. He takes immense joy in simply soaking in the heat of the water, breathing in the steam before he starts to scrub away the day’s grime and the scent of coffee from his skin. 

Keith scrubs at his hair with dollar store shampoo, staring at the slightly cracked tile in the wall across from him in the claw-foot tub. His building isn’t exactly the nicest on campus, but it’s the cheapest as far as dorm costs go and for the price difference Keith can overlook the less-than-stellar aesthetics. Considering he’s paying out-of-pocket for housing, he tries to pinch as many pennies as he can in any place he can spare it. 

Once the chill from outside has thoroughly seeped from his limbs, Keith turns off the shower and pads his way into his bedroom. The building is blessedly quiet for a Friday night, most of the other students having left for break already, and for once he thinks he’ll actually be able to sleep. He pulls on a pair of clean boxers and a long-sleeved thermal, pulling his hair back in a ponytail and soft headband to keep his wet bangs out of his face. Keith climbs into bed, the only noise around him being the soft hum of his radiator in the other room and the occasional car passing by on the street. He thinks about his friends, all on their ways home, about the offers he got, about how he could’ve been with them. Tries not to let the small pang of regret linger in his stomach as he wraps his blankets tighter. 

This isn’t so bad, he thinks, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t think of his friends or where he could be as he falls asleep to the silence.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Keith is aware of when he wakes up is that it’s fucking cold despite the fact that he’d turned on the heat when he’d gotten home from work. His nose is ice cold, and he quickly pulls in the foot that had managed to escape his comforter. He grumbles in irritation at the realization that his heater is probably on the fritz again, burrowing deeper into his covers to try and conserve body heat. He makes a mental note to call the RD in the morning about it.

 The second thing he’s aware of is a vague, erratic _tap-tap-tapping_ on his window. He’s a fairly light sleeper, so the sound is probably the reason why he’s awake at—he glances at his alarm clock and makes a face—three twenty-three in the morning. He turns over in a huff; irritated that he’d been awoken by something so miniscule when he’s finally managed to get some sleep. But Keith will be _damned_ if he lets some stupid tapping noise keep him awake when his last decent night’s sleep was three days ago, so he buries his head beneath his pillow and sighs in relief when the noise is dulled to nearly nothing.

Until his phone begins ringing.

Keith doesn’t even look at the screen as he hits the ‘ _accept call_ ’ button, eyes screwed shut in stubborn defiance of this turn of events as he growls, “What?” 

_“Oh, good, you’re up! Come to your window!”_

“Lance?” Keith asks, mild annoyance now full-blown irritation. He sits up, glaring into the darkness of his bedroom. “What the actual hell?” 

 _“Just come to your window! And for the love of all things holy and good, make it quick.”_ Lance says, and promptly hangs up.

Keith stares down at his phone in bewilderment before glancing at his window. Sighing heavily, he swings his legs over the side of his bed, mourning the loss of his blanket cocoon. He hisses when his bare feet connect with the cold wood of his floor. He trudges to the window, but he can barely see shit through the frost on the glass so he forces the old wooden frame up to lean his head out into the cold. All around him is snow falling in fat, fluffy chunks.

“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks! Arise, fair Mullet, and let me the fucketh up. ”

Keith rubs his eye with a freezing fist, glowering down at his unwelcomed guest. “Lance, what the hell? Do you even know what time it is? And aren’t you supposed to be in _California_?”

The taller boy is three stories below him, wrapped in a thick blue jacket and a striped scarf. He’s rubbing a glove-clad hand up an arm in a futile attempt to keep warm, the other clutching a handful of what look to be pebbles. “Well ‘ _Supposed to be’_ is kind of the key phrase in that sentence. And yeah, I’m aware it’s ass-crack-o’clock, so why don’t you hook your boy up with a cappuccino? I’m dyin’ down here.” 

Keith slams his window shut, glass rattling in the pane. He’ll give him a cappuccino, all right: right in his stupid face. He’ll even make sure it’s bubbling hot; just the way Lance likes it.

“ _KEITH, NO, WAIT—I WAS KIDDING_. LEMME UP, IT’S FUCKING _FREEZING_ OUT HERE—”

Keith scowls as Lance continues to holler up at him from the street. He has an apartment to go to that’s less than ten minutes away; he can go _there_ if he’s so goddamn cold. He drops back into his bed with absolutely no grace, immediately wrapping himself back up with determination to go back to sleep if only just to spite the moron on his sidewalk. His phone vibrates with a text notification, and he wants to punch something as he swipes the screen to read it. To no surprise, it’s Lance, because _of course it is_.

  **u leave me no choice**

Keith quirks an eyebrow, ready to roll back over and fall into the blissful nothingness of sleep when he hears it.

  _“I REALLY CAN’T STAAAAY—BUT BABY IT’S COLD OUTSIDE.”_

He’s gonna kill him. 

Lance sounds like a dying cat, howling the lyrics at the top of his lungs like the asshole he is. He’s trying to do the duet by himself, switching from a high-pitched squeak to a grumbling baritone as he flips between the different parts of the song. Keith _really_ just wants to turn over and ignore him, but at this rate he’s going to wake up his remaining neighbors and he really _, really_ doesn’t want to deal with that. 

He throws off his blankets in a fit of rage, storming to his window and throwing it open as Lance croons, “ _I’LL TAKE YOUR HAAAT, YOUR HAIR LOOKS_ SWEEEELL—”

“Will you _shut up?!_ ” Keith whisper-shouts, cutting him off. “You’re going to wake up my entire building, you ass!”

“What,” Lance asks him, grin on his face and a flush on his cheeks. He’s bouncing from one foot to the other beside his suitcases, hands tucked in his pockets. “You can’t tell me you’re not a fan of serenades.”

“What I’m a fan of is _sleeping_ ,” Keith hisses. “Which you are apparently determined to ruin for me. Why don’t you go to your own place and bother your _own_ neighbors?”

“Keith, buddy, pal, friend, amigo, my guy—”

“What?”

 “You see, oh benevolent friend of mine, you A-plus guy, you, you rocker of shitty 80’s haircuts—”

 “ _Lance—!”_

“I’m kind of locked out.”

Keith stares at him incredulously. “ _You’re_ —Jesus, then call Hunk! Why is this _my_ problem?” 

“Hunk left like two days ago, remember? He’s not gonna be back in the state ‘til after New Years.” Lance’s pout is illuminated by the soft orange glow of the streetlight, and he’s kind of miffed at how well it defines the young man’s jawline. He pointedly glares a hole into his stupid beanie instead of making direct eye contact. 

“What about Shiro?”

“He’s leaving with Allura for Boston in like, two hours.”

“Pidge?”

“She and Matt left last night. Seriously dude, you were there when we said goodbye to them. I think that headband of yours is cutting off blood flow to your brain.”

Keith shifts from foot to foot, shivering involuntarily as the wind kicks up and sweeps in through his window. It’s at the very most twenty degrees outside, and he’s growing more and more irate over the reminder that what little heat his bedroom has is very quickly seeping out into the evening air. Part of him wants to just shut the window and tell him to go to a diner and wait until the locksmith’s opens up, but despite his shitty grin, Keith can see his red nose and chattering teeth from three stories up and a small pang of sympathy stabs him in the gut.

He grinds his teeth, glaring down at where Lance is standing, rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, knees bending in an occasional impatient bounce. He tucks his hands deeper into his pockets, burrowing his nose into his scarf. For a moment Lance looks almost ethereal in the lamplight, breath a puff of mist that seeps from his cold-pale lips. He glances up at Keith, ocean-blue eyes shimmering as the light bounces off the sharp cut of his jaw—but then he opens his mouth and ruins any illusion of attractiveness in Keith’s sleep-deprived brain.

A blessing, really.

“So are you gonna let me up or not?” He whines.

 Keith sighs loudly through his nose and fights the urge to slam his window shut on his head. “Alright, alright. Lemme put on some pants first, you baby.”

“Fine, but hurry the fuck up or I’m reporting this as child abuse.”

Keith closes the window and stumbles around to find a pair of sweats in the darkness of his bedroom. He nearly falls over trying to pull them on before stumbling out of his room towards his front door. The apartment is dead silent and even colder than his bedroom, void of the steady hum of the radiator. Yeah, definitely have to call the RD about that. He slips on his coat and a pair of sneakers, double-checking that he has his keys before shutting the door.

 

* * *

 

“Took you long enough, Jesus.” Lance says, nearly barreling over Keith as he makes his way into the foyer. He looks even colder up close, tan skin unusually pale and nose flushed a cherry red. Keith can hear his teeth chattering from two feet away.

 “You look cold.” Is all Keith says.

 “Really?” Lance says through his shivers, tone dripping with sarcasm. “It’s a pretty balmy 17 degrees out there. I’m surprised I didn’t get a sunburn.”

“You can’t get a sunburn. It’s three in the morning.”

“Believe me, Keith, I am _painfully_ aware of that. Now if you would be so kind as to show me to your nearest piece of squishy furniture, I’d like to sleep away this entire shitty evening.”

 They trudge up the stairwell together in a tired, agitated shuffle. Lance bemoans the fact that Keith didn’t just let him go up the elevator the entire time, switching his giant duffle bag from shoulder to shoulder every couple flights. He waddles up the stairs like a pissed off penguin, off-balance between his bag, his guitar case, and the rolling suitcase he carries in his other hand.

“It’s your fault for packing so much stuff.”

“Not everyone can survive with one pair of jeans and three hoodies. Some of us have standards.” 

“You know, it really wouldn’t be hard to push you down these stairs. With all your crap, you’d tip right over.” 

“You’re a savage.”

“And you’re a moron. Hang on.” Keith says, fishing a hand in his sweatpants pocket for his keys. He unlocks the deadbolt and bumps the heavy door open with a hip. It squeaks slightly as it unsticks from the doorframe, swinging open into his tiny one-bedroom.

Lance nearly runs him over as he rushes in, almost knocking Keith over with his giant ass bag of he doesn’t even want to know what. He frowns as Lance drops his shit unceremoniously in the middle of his floor, stripping off his jacket, scarf, and hat before practically diving onto his couch. 

“Sweet, sweet relief,” He moans into the cushion. “Just give me a pillow and a blanket and we’re golden.”

“Anything if it’ll shut you up and let me go back to sleep.” Keith sighs, flipping the lock to his door. He kicks off his shoes and shuffles past the couch to his bedroom to dig out a spare blanket from his closet. The only one he can find is an old, kind of worn comforter he’d stolen from Shiro a couple years ago that smells faintly musty, but it’ll have to do. Keith doesn’t have much as far as bedding that isn’t already in use on his own bed, so he grabs one of his two pillows and goes back to his living area. 

“Here.” Keith says, dumping them over the back of the couch on top of Lance. “Bathroom is to the left of my door. Now don’t bother me again until the sun is up.”

“Can do. Thanks Keith,” Lance says brightly. He stands up to shuck off his jeans and sneakers before collapsing back onto the cushions, curling into a tight ball. He’s out cold before Keith can even turn off the light. 

“No problem,” He responds quietly, flicking the overhead light off. 

He heads back to his bed and lays down, slightly envious of Lance’s ability to just fall straight into unconsciousness. It’s such a _Lance_ thing to do: no matter where he is or how uncomfortable the position, the idiot can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. This shouldn’t be endearing, but it kind of is, and Keith blames this horrific thought on the fact that he’s going on 2 hours of sleep in 36 hours. He rolls back into his bed and cocoons himself in his comforter, determined to push thoughts of the boy on his couch and his stupid ability to sleep with no problem out of his mind for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 “Keith."

Maybe if he pretends to still be sleeping, he’ll go away. Keith tries to keep his breath steady, praying for Lance’s short attention span to reign true once again. However, his luck is about as shitty as his heating, so he shouldn’t feel surprised when Lance whines,

“ _Keeeeeith._ ”

“I am _sleeping_. Fuck off.”

The blunt approach is usually the most effective when ignoring his lanky friend proves futile, but Lance just snorts at him.

“Wow, you’re even bitchy when you sleep. Impressive, Mullet.”

Keith rolls over beneath the blankets, cracking an eye open to glare at the shadowy mass of Lance’s figure standing at the other side of his bed. He’s wrapped in the ratty comforter that Keith gave him. He looks like a pissed off caterpillar, all hunched over and miserable; half of his hair is sticking up in an awkward cowlick, and Keith can make out the barest hint of his pouted lip in the dim light that floods in through his blinds.

“What do you want?”

“I’m _cold._ ” He says, managing to sound like a whining toddler despite being old enough to drink. “Your apartment is like a friggin’ igloo, man. Don’t you have another blanket or something? Or a _thermostat?_ Hell, I’d take a book of matches at this point.”

Keith cracks his other eye open, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Now that he’s waking up a bit he can feel how cold his nose is, and immediately tries to stifle the urge to burrow his face beneath the covers. He sighs.

“Sorry, the radiator is acting up again.”

 “So you’re telling _me_ , the dude that sat on your sidewalk in sub-zero temperatures for _half an hour_ , that this place has no heat.”

“Yeah.” Keith says, sheepish. “Uh, sorry?”

“ _Dios_. Move over.”

 _That_ wakes Keith right the hell up. “Excuse me?”

“I said move over.” Lance says, already climbing onto the bed with no shame or hesitation whatsoever. “It’s cold as balls on the couch so I’m crashing in here. Now give me some of those blankets.”

Keith scrambles as far away from Lance as possible, wrapping his comforter protectively around himself as Lance lunges for it. “No. Nuh-uh. No way. These are _mine_.”

Lance makes an outraged noise through his nose. “Excuse you, I am your _guest!_ What happened to hospitality and ‘ _the guest is always right_ ’ and all that crud?”

“Doesn’t include jerks who show up uninvited and wake their hosts up at fucking _three in the morning because they’re too dumb to remember their keys._ ”

“Three-thirty! And _rude_.” Lance says. “Now _gimme_.”

“ _No!_ ”

He feels the mattress dip with Lance’s weight. He tries to roll away but nearly falls of the other end of the bed when Lance’s fists tangle in his blanket, tugging him. His position of being burrito-wrapped proves to be both a blessing and a curse because while it prevents Lance from worming in beneath them, it also makes Keith helpless as he’s dragged back towards the middle of the bed. For a string bean, Lance is fairly strong and Keith kind of really hates it. 

“Sharing is caring, Keefers, now let me under!” Lance says, tugging the edge of his comforter out from beneath him. He does some sort of alligator death roll, screeching his victory when he manages to unwrap Keith enough to get his body underneath it.

Keith kicks furiously at him and feels immense pleasure when it connects with Lance’s bony shin. He retaliates by pressing his bare feet against his calves, though, and Keith has to make a full-body retreat to the other side of the bed because Jesus fucking Christ, his feet are cold. Lance cackles victoriously when he almost falls off the other side of the bed in his haste, the mattress shaking slightly with his giggles.

Keith scowls as Lance wiggles around, settling down. He leans up and drapes the blanket Keith had given him earlier across the both of them, “because I actually know how to be a decent friggin’ person, you grumpy sack of walnuts.”

He turns over, white-knuckling the blankets. “ _Go to sleep_ ,” He bites out, but gets no response. When he rolls back over, he sees Lance tucked neatly beneath the blankets beside him, out cold. He looks more peaceful than Keith ever remembers seeing him, face smoothed over and lips parted. The air between them is quiet enough that Keith can hear him snore quietly. 

Honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised: Lance is known for falling asleep in seconds. Keith rolls onto his back to watch the lights from passing cars filter through his blinds on the ceiling, trying to ignore how much warmer the bed already feels with Lance in it. He wants to stay annoyed for the sheer principle of it, but it’s comfortable and warm enough that he starts to drift off after a few minutes. In the hazy half-consciousness he finds himself in, Keith can admit that for how inconvenient this situation is, it actually feels kind of…. _nice._

Well, it does until Lance lets out a quaking snore that rattles the bed and startles him awake, at least.

  _“Idiot_ ,” Keith mumbles scathingly, burying his head beneath his pillow to try and filter out the noise. He’s not sure if it’s directed at Lance or himself. He thinks he'll just settle for both.


	2. Your eyes are like starlight now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Target trips, snowball fights, tons of pining, and really, Keith? How have you not seen Elf?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I CAN EXPLAIN;;;;
> 
> Despite it being one year late, here's chapter two, because even if it takes me another year, I'm finishing this story, dammit. But huge, HUGE thank you to Bethy for listening to me ramble about this fic for literally over a year now, and for laughing with me over orange chocolate break-a-balls.
> 
> Also, because copyright, I don’t own Target, Elf, Frozen, Mean Girls, PopTarts, Star Wars, or Mariah Carey’s greatest gift to mankind, “All I Want For Christmas”. Or anything else I’ve mentioned in this behemoth of a chapter and forgot to list. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, everybody!!!

It’s the first time in Keith can’t remember how long that he doesn’t groggily wake up to his cellphone’s blaring alarm, instead slowly shifting naturally towards consciousness. It’s wonderfully warm beneath his blankets, nothing of the world existing beyond the heat of his bed. He’s still in that semi-awake state where he’s not asleep but his eyes are still shut, everything a fuzzy blip in his awareness. There’s a comfortable weight around his middle and the smell of sea air and musk swirls in his lungs when he breathes, and for a short while, he muses that he can’t remember the last time he’d been so comfortable.

 

Keith blinks open one eye and then the other, his room illuminated by the dull grey light of early morning. He can just make out the fat, fluffy chunks of falling snow through the crack in his blinds, and he sighs quietly, content. Keith has always liked the quiet of mornings, especially the tranquility that overcast days somehow bring, and as he stretches a bit, he thinks that he wouldn’t half mind spending the entire day in bed like this.

 

Just as he arches his spine to stretch, the weight around his waist constricts, the bundle of warm blankets huddling closer. Suddenly there’s a warm, firm line pressed against his side and a puff of breath against his ear, and Keith goes from being blissfully half-conscious to alarmingly awake. The previous few hours come flooding back, of Lance throwing pebbles at his window, of Lance crashing on his couch.

 

—Of Lance _crawling in his bed._

 

Keith tries to adjust his breathing by reminding himself to actually _inhale_ , which _hoo boy, bad idea_ , because he gets a deep breath of that wonderful salt air and Old Spice and _Lance_ —and that’s just not good. For like, anyone. Especially Keith, who is about twelve seconds away from full-body organ failure. _Okay_ ; shallow breaths, then.

 

Lance sighs deeply behind him. His breath ruffles Keith’s sideburns, tickles the back of his neck. He’s not sure if he’s getting dizzy from the terrifying proximity or the shallow breathing, but either way the room is spinning and he’s still kinda feeling like organ failure is not in the too-distant future. For some inexplicable reason that defies all logic because she’s about three hundred miles away, Keith feels like Pidge is somehow laughing at him.

 

He glances down at the band of warmth slung across his waist and stiffens. Logically, he knows it’s Lance’s arm. He knows he’s there, can feel the firm press of muscle through his shirt, can feel the heat radiating against his back through his thin cotton shirt, can smell his stupid conditioner and even stupider cologne. He _knows_ it’s Lance, but seeing the tan arm tucked around him makes him realize that _holy shit, he’s totally spooning Lance right now._

 

Lance snores softly, curling tighter against Keith’s back. He slots their knees together and mumbles something incoherent into Keith’s shirt, and Keith is not proud of the noise he makes. He white-knuckles his blankets, staring intently at the wall and wondering how the hell he’s going to get out of this with his pride and sanity in tact.

 

Slowly, he tries to turn over to better pry the wiry limb from his waist, a delicate operation considering he’s about—Keith sucks in a startled breath in another step towards his own demise— _two fucking inches from his face, Jesus fucking **Christ**_.

 

For all his flailing and shitty pick up lines, Lance genuinely _is_ handsome when he actually cuts the act. He’s slender without being waifish, lean muscle coiled beneath deeply tanned skin. His complexion is flawless ( _though out of spite Keith will never admit it_ ,) and his hair is always perfectly effortless and wind-tousled. He’s got a sharp jaw and a sharper grin, a sculpted nose, high cheekbones and blue, blue eyes. Lance is every textbook, magazine, movie and pop culture definition of gorgeous.

 

Keith is not above admitting that Lance is attractive—at least, when he’s not talking—but it’s always been a kind of attraction that Keith can brush off. It’s easy to ignore the fluttering in his chest when Lance grins when it’s overshadowed by overwhelming annoyance. It’s natural for his pulse to skip a beat when a cute guy smiles at him, but when that cute guy in the same breath quotes _The Bee Movie_ , Keith knows that it’s nothing past basic attraction. Lance is his friend who happens to have a pretty face— _again_ , when he’s not talking.

 

Which is why this is a problem: without Lance’s constant stream of chatter to distract him, Keith has a chance to trace the cupid’s bow of his mouth and ponder the length of his eyelashes, and the fact that he is _way too goddamn close_.

 

He’s seen Lance asleep before. Running with the same group of people for nearly seven years means expecting a certain level of intimacy, like sleepovers and all-nighters and falling asleep next to each other on your mutual friends’ floor at three am after marathonning the first three _Fast and Furious_ movies. He’s seen it before; hell, he saw it _last night_. But that’s always been from a safe distance—not one where he’s close enough to count the constellations in his freckles.

 

 _Hoo_ boy.

 

In his sleep, Lance purses his lips and lets out a tiny hum and _dammit,_ that’s cute. This is a problem. _Lance_ is a problem. Lance and his stupid pretty face, showing up at unholy hours and climbing into Keith’s bed like it’s the most natural, non-heart-attack-inducing thing in the world. He has half a mind to kick him off the bed.

 

But that would be rude, and as entitled as Keith feels right now to do so, he also realizes that doing so would seem like an unjustified attack. And God knows Lance doesn’t need any more fuel for their dumpster fire of a rivalry.

They’ve been pretty good the past year or so: Lance has—for the most part—dropped the whole _‘sworn enemies’_ thing they’ve had going since high school, and while they still get into stupid competitions with each other nearly every time they’re together, it’s more playful than anything. Lance will seek out his company even without the group. Most of their arguments now are more for amusement rather than bred out of malice. Lance even _smiles_ at him—honest to God _beams_ sometimes, and it’s damn near blinding.

 

But still, Keith doesn’t want to push his luck. So instead of Sparta-kicking Lance off the bed so his heart has a chance to get its shit together, he slips away from his hold and out from beneath the blessed warmth of the comforter. The room is absolutely freezing. Keith wiggles his toes, grimacing when his feet make contact with the hardwood. Even with socks, it’s like walking on ice.

 

Quick as he can, Keith pulls one of his hoodies off of his desk chair and throws it on in the hopes to conserve at least some body heat. A part of him yearns for the solid line of warmth and the sweet haze that he’d awoken to beside Lance, but Keith quickly tells that tiny, stupid part to get a fucking grip.

 

Still, despite only getting a few solid hours of sleep last night, he feels surprisingly well rested. Almost chipper, if he weren’t three degrees away from freezing solid. He clings to the butterflies that continue to buzz pleasantly around in his stomach as he glances back at the lump beneath his blankets and quietly slides into the living room to call his landlord.

 

 _Who knows,_ Keith muses to himself with an unusual optimism, _maybe he won’t be an absolute prick today._

 

* * *

 

“That absolute _prick_ ,” Keith hisses, slamming his phone on the table. It’s the fifth time in an hour he’s called Sendak about the heating, and it’s the fifth time that he’s gotten no answer. This last time the phone had only rung twice before it went to his voicemail—which of course is full—so Keith is certain that his dick of a landlord is actively avoiding him.

 

Distantly he can hear movement and a low voice coming from his room: Lance must be up, then. A few minutes later out of the corner of his eye he sees his bedroom door swing open. He watches Lance shuffling out into his living room, bleary-eyed and hair a mess. He hangs up call number six and turns to see Lance wander towards his kitchen area like a zombie, eyes slit and face twisted into a pout.

 

Keith watches him dig around in his cabinet for food. Belatedly he notices that he’s still in his clothes from last night; a t-shirt and a pair of boxers that are covered in mistletoe. He rolls his eyes when he notices the words _“Kiss This”_ emblazoned across his butt as he reaches up to grab a mug from the shelf. He promptly averts his eyes, scowling.

 

“What was up with that?” Lance tries to ask through a yawn, but it comes out as a slurred mess. He meanders over to the coffee pot that Keith had put on and pours himself a generous glassful. Because he’s a barista, he is all too familiar with how much extra crap Lance puts in his coffee and he frowns because there is no way in hell he left room for creamer.

 

To his mild surprise, Lance doesn’t beeline for his fridge or even towards the side of the stove for the sugar bowl. Instead, he plants himself in Keith’s only other kitchen chair, slurping the dark roast greedily. He smacks his lips loudly, slouching in his seat. Keith raises his eyebrows, so blatantly surprised that he skipped his 3 sugars that instead of answering him, says,

 

“Since when do you drink your coffee black? Especially dark roast?”

 

“Mother Nature has royally screwed me on my Christmas plans, so I need something as bitter as I am right now.” He grumbles around the rim of his mug, “Seriously, why is it even called a Nor’easter? I don’t see a single goddamn Easter egg. This is bullshit.”

 

“I sincerely hope that you’re making a joke. Please tell me you’re not being serious right now.”

 

Lance stares at him through narrow eyes, slurping down his coffee. “You know what _is_ serious? This horrendous lack of breakfast.”

 

Keith arches a brow, nursing his own cup. “I’ve got Poptarts in the cabinet,” He offers. Lance nods solemnly.

 

“That’ll do, pig.”

 

Lance trudges back towards the counter like he’s still half asleep and freezes halfway through rummaging through his cabinets. “Dude,” He sounds almost offended. “There is _one_ package of Poptarts in here. That is _already open_. And it’s _stale._ ”

 

“Bone apple tea.” He deadpans.

 

“Unbelievable. Half a star. Worst Air B&B ever.”

 

“However will my ratings recover?”

 

Lance flops back into his seat, gnawing on the corner of the stale Poptart in question. He swallows with a grimace. “This tastes like jelly-filled cardboard. God, the things I do for sustenance.”

 

Keith points a finger. “Don’t even play that game. I watched you chug a quart of expired milk freshman year for five dollars.”

 

“And _bragging rights!_ Not only did I get five dollars, I proved Pidge wrong. Who’s the real loser here?”

 

“Your large intestine.”

 

“Details,” Lance takes another bite from the Poptart, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. “So who was on the phone?”

 

Keith scowls down at his phone. “More like who _wasn’t_ on the phone. My asshole landlord is dodging my calls, so it looks like we’re gonna be freezing our butts off for the forseeable future.”

 

Lance’s brows shoot up his forehead in outrage. “I’m pretty sure that’s straight-up illegal,” he says around a mouthful of crumbs.

 

“Hasn’t stopped him before.” Keith says. “One time he didn’t fix a cracked pipe in the bathroom until it _literally_ burst and then he had the balls to try and make me pay for the water damage. I haven’t exactly been his favorite tenant.”

 

“It’s the mullet.”

 

“Nah, it was probably me telling him to go eat shit.”

 

“True,” Lance muses, taking another bite. His hair is still sleep-mussed, but his eyes twinkle. “But I can guarantee the mullet didn’t help.”

 

Keith can’t help the smile that fights its way onto his face. He tries to hide it behind the lip of his coffee mug, but the giddiness lingers.

 

* * *

 

“ _Sooo_ …” Lance ventures from his cocoon of blankets. He’s thankfully put on pants since breakfast and has set up base camp on Keith’s couch. “What’s the plan?”

 

Keith perks a bit. They’ve been sitting in relative silence for about an hour, Lance aimlessly scrolling through his phone and Keith brooding moodily out the window while fantasizing about kicking Sendak square between the eyes. It’s too cold to fall back asleep even though it’s fairly early, so they’ve been commiserating in his living room.

 

“What plan?”

 

“The plan to get you some heat, my dude. I’m pretty sure I just saw a penguin waddle into your bathroom.”

 

Keith snorts. “Well unless you’ve got a plan, this is what I’ve got,” He says, motioning to the room around them. Lance looks at him incredulously.

 

“You’re kidding. Keith, we’re gonna freeze. The Weather Channel app says the high today is gonna be thirty degrees. _Thirty!_ ”

 

Yeah, Keith’s numb toes are painfully aware of this. “Believe me, Lance, I’m about as thrilled as you are. But Sendak is dodging my calls, so for the current moment I’m planning on putting on every other pair of socks I own and lighting last semester’s textbooks on fire for warmth.”

 

Lance slouches into the sofa, dejected. “I wish the locksmith was open, then we could stay at my place.” He says, fiddling with a thread on the edge of his blanket. “I swung by there last night before I came here to see their hours but there’s a sign in the window saying the owner’s out of town until the thirtieth.”

 

“So I guess I really am stuck with you, then.”

 

“ _Oi._ ”

 

Keith grins a bit despite the fact that he can see his own breath in his living room. “Well, misery loves company.”

 

“And company loves not having frostbite on every appendage, please and thank you.” Lance says through chattering teeth. “Seriously, we’ve got to figure something out. At this rate I think my nose is gonna fall off.”

 

“Too bad it’s not your mouth.”

 

“ _Oi!_ ”

 

At this Keith full-out belly laughs. Lance throws one of the throw pillows Shiro had given him at his face in retaliation, but Keith can see the corners of his lips twitch upwards.

 

“Oh _ha-ha_ , yuck it up, mullet. Now stop laughing and put on some shoes because unlike you, I’ve got a plan.”

 

Keith rolls his head to the side, propping his cheek on his shoulder as he stares at Lance with vague amusement.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah, _oh_. We’re going to the only place that college students love more than the bar.” Lance says triumphantly as he throws off his blanket to start pulling on his boots. Keith watches as he fights to get his foot into his boots with three pairs of socks on.

 

“And where might that be?”

 

“ _Target_ , my guy.”

 

* * *

 

The snow continues to fall in fluffy chunks, sticking to his coat sleeves and melting in his hair. Keith frowns as he pulls his scarf up higher around his mouth and digs his hands further into his pockets. The only consolation for this awful cold is seeing that Lance is just as miserable as he is right now. The boy was born and raised in the hot, humid sunshine of southern California, and it never shows more than when the temperature dips below 65 degrees.

 

“See, I love snow in theory, but not in practice.” Lance bemoans from behind his own scarf. He’s bundled up tightly in his deep blue military-style jacket, hair and ears tucked beneath a heather grey beanie. He waves a gloved hand out in front of them. “Like, objectively, it’s very aesthetically pleasing. Sparkling lights, winter wonderland, decking Shiro in the face with a snowball; all that jazz. But like, does it have to be so friggin’ _cold_?”

 

“You’re an astrophysics major, Lance,” Keith says. “ _You_ tell _me_ if it has to be cold to snow.”

 

“Oh, _har-har_ ,” Lance deadpans, returning his hand to his pocket. He shivers, shoulders jumping. “But for real, it’s cold as balls.”

 

“You know, whining about how cold you are isn’t going to make it any warmer out.”

 

“I know,” Lance says, nudging up against Keith’s arm. He leans his head down on Keith’s shoulder—which _can’t_ be comfortable, seriously, this kid’s got like 2 inches on him—and bats his eyelashes teasingly. There’s a few snowflakes clinging to them. “That’s why I have you to keep me warm, Keefers.”

 

Keith turns away and groans, cheeks reddening as Lance cackles. “You’re embarrassing. And don’t call me that.”

 

Lance pulls away but remains close enough that their elbows brush. Keith tries not to let himself read into it. They continue the rest of the trek in a relative, comfortable silence, Lance humming “Sleigh Ride” under his breath. Keith watches from the corner of his eyes the swirling puffs of breath that bleed from Lance’s mouth mingle with the snowfall. Keith tries to focus on the crunching of the snow beneath his boots instead of his voice.

 

“It’s pretty quiet,” Lance says after a few moments. He glances around at the rest of the street, relatively empty save for the occasional plow. “It’s like a ghost town.”

 

“It’s always like this during breaks.” Keith muses, kicking a bit of snow up with the toe of his shoe. “It’s not as dead during the summer, but when school’s out it’s hardly packed.”

 

Lance glances at him. “So you really _do_ stay here, don’t you?”

 

Keith looks at Lance, bristling with an unexplainable defensiveness. “No shit, I _live_ here. What, do you think I just stop existing when you guys leave?”

 

It’s hardly a fair argument, but something about Lance’s disbelief stings a little; like picking at an old scab. Lance’s brows jump to his hairline, and he immediately starts waving his hands in front of himself in a universal sign of damage control.

 

“No, no, no, no, _no!_ That’s not what I meant,” He insists, and the pinch in Keith’s chest is soothed a bit by the genuine apology in his eyes. “What I meant was—I mean, I just—” Lance takes a deep breath and deflates with a sigh. “It’s just weird to think about. I’m so used to it being, well, _school._ I’ve never really stopped to think of what it’s like when we all go—” He clears his throat. “Well. It’s just crazy how you know this entire different side to town than any of us do. It’s like a totally different place without everyone here.”

 

Keith shrugs a bit, still irrationally defensive despite being so used to this kind of thing, it hurts. “Yeah, well, at least I don’t have to fight for the hot water.” He lets the conversation lull again, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. He’s a little annoyed at how much Lance’s comment bothers him, even when he knows that he hadn’t meant it that way. He shoves his hands far into his pockets and buries his nose in his scarf, irritated and acutely embarrassed.

 

“It’s kinda cool, actually.”

 

Keith glances up at Lance through the corner of his eye. Lance’s gaze is distant, wandering in a wide arc across the expanse of street before them. Many of the smaller storefronts are dimmed; the hardware store, the secondhand bookshop, the small bodega on the corner. It’s still fairly early in the day, but without the added foot traffic from all of the university students, Keith knows that most of the family-owned stores work on shortened hours and some probably wouldn’t bother to open with the snow.

 

Keith watches him, silent. Lance looks at the half-shoveled sidewalks with wonder. They’ve walked these streets thousands of times, and yet he’s looking at every shop window and lamppost as if it’s brand new. His lips quirk up in a soft half-smile, breath misting in front of him as he lets out a small huff of bemusement.

 

“Usually there’s all this noise and chaos, people everywhere. But now it’s just so…still,” Lance leans towards Keith, almost shyly. Snowflakes cling to his eyelashes. “It’s like a secret.”

 

Keith finds himself leaning in as well. “Too bad you’re awful at keeping secrets,” He answers quietly.

 

“That’s not fair. I’m a great secret-keeper.” Lance challenges, voice just as low.

 

It’s like an out-of-body experience; his mind is shouting _what the hell_ at him, but Lance is a black hole and he’s helpless to his pull. Even in a snowstorm beneath a grey sky the boy radiates sunshine, and oh shit he’s close enough to see his freckles in high-def again. _Danger, Will Robinson!_

 

There’s less than half a foot between their shoulders and Lance looks hesitant, almost uncomfortable, and Keith’s heart drops to his stomach in panic. He quickly clears his throat and looks away, sidestepping to put some distance between them. “Yeah,” He says a little too loudly—suddenly the silence of the uninhabited sidewalk is stifling—“Like how you kept Pidge’s surprise party a secret?”

 

Whatever sort of tension between them evaporates as Lance’s face colors, his mouth gaping. “It’s not my fault that, that little gremlin has like, mind reading powers or some shit. She Jedi mind-tricked me!”

 

“She flat out asked if there was a party. I literally watched you cave.”

 

Lance scoffs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Whatever. I wanna see _you_ be on the receiving end of the Laser Pidge Death Stare— _trademark_ —and see how well you hold up.”

 

“Still would hold up better than you.”

 

“I refuse to be sassed by the Grinch Incarnate.”

 

Keith pouts. He’s not the most savvy when it comes to Christmas pop culture, but he’s watched the Jim Carey version enough times with the group that he gets the insult. “I’m not a Grinch.”

 

Lance waggles a finger in his face. “Nah, dude. You’re totally the Grinch. Keeping cooped up all day in your Grinch cave scowling down at all the Whos down in Whoville while they sing their Christmas carols.”

 

“That’s because Christmas carols are dumb.”

 

“See? You’re just proving my point, Mister Grinch. Christmas carols are the bomb. After all, _‘The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear’._ ”

 

“Who says that exactly?”

 

“The patron saint of Christmas, duh.”

 

Keith quirks a brow. “Saint Nicholas?”

 

“Pssh, _no_. Buddy the Elf, my dude.”

 

“…Who the hell is Buddy the Elf?”

 

Lance stops in the middle of the sidewalk, gasping as if Keith had insulted everything he’s ever loved. “Keithryn Kogane—”

 

“—That’s not my name—”

 

“—Are you telling me that you’ve never seen _Elf?_ ”

 

Keith shrugs a shoulder. “I guess I am. Holiday movies have never really been my thing.”

 

“Dude!” Lance still sounds both furious and disbelieving as he flails his arms at the open air. “It’s a _classic_! It’s like _Mean Girls_! How the hell have you never seen _Elf?_ ”

 

Despite himself, Keith smirks a bit. “Probably not the best time to tell you that I’ve never seen _Mean Girls,_ either.”

 

Lance makes an indignant squawk. “Uncultured _heathen!_ This is a _sin!_ ” Keith watches him throw his hands up, shouting his outrage to the grey sky above them. “How have you been friends with me and Hunk for this long and you haven’t seen _Mean Girls_?”

 

Keith shrugs. “You two quote it so often it feels like I’ve seen it, so I guess I never thought it was worth mentioning.”

 

Lance cradles his head in his hands. “Oooh my God, dude. This is unacceptable. Mark my words, you will watch those movies before I leave. No friend of mine is allowed to go through life not witnessing the two most important pieces of art ever created by mankind.”

 

“That seems like a stretch.”

 

“The only stretch that is happening here is your vocal chords.” Lance says, marching ahead. He waves his arms like a conductor, and Keith hates that he’s smiling. “Now come on, Keithy-boy, from the top! _On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to meee_ — ow, Jesus!”

 

Keith snickers as Lance recovers from the snowball to the back of his head. But he doesn’t have much time to gloat as Lance ducks and fires off a snowball of his own. It misses Keith by a solid foot.

 

“That was a warm up!”

 

“Sure it was.”

 

Lance scoops up another handful, grinning. “Methinks the mullet doth shit talk too much. Put your money where your mouth is.”

 

Keith bends his knees, already rolling a handful of snow. He waggles his fingers at him tauntingly. “Bring it, McClain.”

* * *

 

The Target parking lot comes into view after a few minutes, horrifyingly crowded and Keith immediately regrets every life choice that has ever led him to this moment. It’s practically overflowing with cars, entrances and exits congested with swarms of shoppers swaddling huge armfuls of bags. It’s the picture perfect essence of capitalism at its finest, and it makes Keith want to turn the fuck around and cut his losses. But Lance must see the dismay on his face, because before Keith can even attempt at turning on his heel and calling the whole trip off, he grabs him by the elbow and starts to gently tug him along.

 

“Dude, if we leave here without those space heaters, I’m lighting your couch on fire for warmth.”

 

“Worth it.” Keith says grimly. But Lance continues to drag him along like a pissed-off toddler past the throng of people and through the sliding doors. He anxiously looks over his shoulder at the sea of cars in the parking lot, and his grimace must be noticeable because Lance even attempts to comfort him, which is like, eight sorts of strange in and of itself.

 

“Come on,” Lance says with a grin, his cap askew and still dripping with snow, “It can’t be _that_ bad. Won’t even take five minutes.”

 

“Look at this parking lot! This is not gonna be five minutes.” Keith drags a hand over his face in frustration. “Do we really have to do this?”

 

“Uhhh, _yes?_ My jeans and socks are completely soaked through. There is no way I’m going back to your icebox of an apartment without some sort of heat source. I’ll die.”

 

Keith ignores him, clenching and unclenching his fists in his pockets. “I thought there was a travel ban. What the hell are all of these people even _doing_ here?”

 

Lance shrugs, picking up the last hand basket in the stand by the door. He immediately sheds his dripping wet hat and gloves and shoves them in a pocket. “Hell hath no fury like a suburban soccer mom with a minivan and four wheel drive, my friend.” He grabs Keith’s hand, and Keith has to try and convince himself that the hitch in his breathing is from the overwhelming atmosphere and _not_ from how unfairly warm Lance’s hand is. “Now hurry up. I wanna get some of those orange chocolate break-a-balls before they’re all gone.”

 

“Orange chocolate _what-now_?”

 

“Shop now, questions later. _Vamos_ , mullet, _vamos!_ ”

 

* * *

 

If possible, inside is even worse.

 

Keith is surrounded on every side by shoppers, most of whom look stressed out and pissed off, not unlike how he feels right now. The bright fluorescents are giving him a headache. Mariah Carey is crooning over the speakers about hanging stockings. Two middle-aged women are nearly spitting with rage at each other over an Elsa doll down the aisle to his left. It’s fucking chaos.

 

To make matters worse, he’d lost Lance approximately thirty-seven minutes ago, which is thirty-six-and-a-half minutes longer than he’d wanted to be in this store. The lanky bastard went high-tailing it down the candy aisle in search of his chocolate oranges and that’s the last Keith has seen of him.

 

He’s already decided to cut his losses and hit the grocery department to scavenge for what was left of the standard eggs, milk, and Pop Tarts, so all that’s left to do is hunt down some ( _hopefully_ ) affordable space heaters that will hold him over until he can get in touch with Sen-dick ( _an insult that Lance was incredibly proud of_ ). However, he got completely turned around after trying to cut through kitchenware to avoid the mob—who knew there’d be such a demand for potholders and no-stick muffin pans? Keith sure fucking didn’t—and instead found himself thrown to the wayside by the toy department.

 

Which is just—so, _so_ bad.

 

All around him are screeching children and parents yelling, and he doesn’t want to turn around but by the swearing he hears, he’s pretty sure the two women fighting over the _Frozen_ doll have come to blows. He hurries down the aisle, white-knuckling his basket and praying to God that he finds Lance so they can get the hell out of this place.

 

“Dude, _there_ you are!”

 

Keith spins around so quickly on his heel that he nearly takes them both out when Lance almost smashes into him. Luckily Lance has at least some semblance of control over his wet noodle of a body and stops himself before he plows him over. He doesn’t even seem phased, preferring to wave his bag-riddled arms at Keith.

 

“I’ve been looking all over for you. You think finding a mullet in a sea of people with actual current hairstyles would be easy, but _nooo_.”

 

Keith pushes his hands away. “I should be saying that to _you_. You’re the one who ran off as soon as we got in here. And _what is all that stuff_?”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” He says, waving him off. Keith spots something glittering inside one of the bags, and the others make a faint jingling sound that makes him decide that he doesn’t want to know. “Have you found the space heaters or what?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Dude!”

 

“What?”

 

“That was your job!” Lance exclaims. More arm waving, more jingling, more wet-noodliness. How the hell Lance can manage to be so shrill all the time is a mystery for the ages. “I went to get the essentials, you went to get the space heaters!”

 

“And _what,_ exactly, are _essentials?_ ” Keith asks with exasperation. He eyes the jingling bags warily.

 

Lance digs a hand into one of his many bags, his face lighting up before pulling out a box with an orange-wrapped ball inside. “Well for starters, I grabbed as many of the orange chocolate break-a-balls that I could get my hands on. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to get these. Apparently orange chocolate break-a-balls are pretty popular.”

 

Keith drags a hand down his face. “Okay first of all, just call them chocolate oranges. Second of all, we can’t just sustain ourselves on chocolate. We need actual food. Third of all, if all of those bags are nothing but chocolate, I’m not helping you when your pancreas decides to straight-up shit the bed.”

 

“I will have you know that only _one_ of these bags are filled with orange chocolate break-a-balls—”

 

“—Say _‘orange chocolate break-a-balls’_ one more time, Lance—”

 

“—and the rest are filled entirely with essential purchases including but not limited to: hot chocolate, candy canes, pancake mix, Doritos, salsa—”

 

“— _Really_ not helping the whole ‘dead pancreas’ thing.”

 

“— _AND_ ,” Lance continues over him, “Some rice and meat and steam-able veggies and junk because I’m not a _total_ monster.”

 

Keith eyes the bags warily, particularly at a bright piece of red garland that peeks out of the top of the bag with the chocolate oranges. He squints skeptically. “And that’s all you bought? Food?”

 

Lance glances away for the briefest moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His fingers twitch. Classic Lance tell. “Yeah. What else would I buy?”

 

Something stupid. Definitely something stupid.

 

“So this is edible tinsel, then.” Keith asks dryly, reaching out to pluck it from the bag when Lance squawks and leaps away from him. He looks at Lance with a raised brow when the boy tries to rearrange the bags behind his back as if _that isn’t totally suspicious._ “Lance, you’re an awful liar.”

 

Lance flushes high in his cheeks, staining his entire face an offended shade of rouge. “I am _not!_ I grew up as the youngest child in a family of five. Lying was a survival tactic.”

 

“Then it’s a wonder you’re not dead yet.” Keith says, making a grab at the bag again. “Now show me what’s in the stupid bag already—”

 

“ _No!_ ” Lance blindly reaches behind him to hurl some sort of googly-eyed stuffed animal at him before bolting down an adjacent aisle. Keith stands there, confused and furious for a moment before sprinting after him.

 

For how crowded it is in this godforsaken store, Lance is irritatingly agile as he bobs and weaves through the throngs of people. Keith almost catches him in the bike aisle, but ends up losing him when he has to make an evasive maneuver to avoid crashing into a young child. He yells an apology over his shoulder when the kid’s mother gives him a nasty look.

 

He bears a hard right when he sees the tail-end of Lance’s scarf disappear down the Star Wars aisle, and he grins victoriously when he sees Lance helplessly trying to figure out a way around a massive blockade of carriages at the far end.

 

“Gimme the bag, Lance,” Keith says, out of breath but triumphant when Lance spins around on his heel and gapes at him. _Gotcha_ , Keith thinks, but apparently the thought is premature when a look of steely determination crosses his face. Instead of conceding like a normal human being, Lance instead grabs a glowing toy lightsaber off of a nearby shelf and points it at Keith threateningly.

 

“You want these bags, you gotta go through me!” He challenges.

 

Keith stares at him.

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

“Oh- _ho_ , young padawan,” Lance grins, “I am more serious than _Mace Windu_.”

 

“I would’ve pinned you more as a Jar Jar Binks kind of guy.”

 

Lance gasps in outrage before charging with an absolutely ridiculous battle cry, and Keith can’t believe that this is actually his life right now when he grabs one of the lightsabers and blocks Lance’s sloppy downwards slice.

 

“At least I’m not prequel-Anakin!” Lance says, taking another swing that Keith blocks easily. “You and your stupid mullets are like two emo peas in a pod!”

 

Keith spins on his heel easily and bats Lance across the butt, which makes him yelp. Lance flails a bit but recovers admirably. He uses the slew of bags that trail up his arms as a means of balancing himself. He grabs a toy Yoda and chucks it at Keith’s head with a noise that Keith can only guess as an attempt at Chewbacca, before sprinting past him again while he’s distracted. Keith swears, batting Yoda away with his lightsaber.

 

“Stop throwing stuffies at me!” Keith shouts as he follows Lance down to home appliances.

 

“Oh my God, what did you call them?!” Lance yells back gleefully over his shoulder. Seriously, how the hell can he be going so fast with so many damn bags all over him?

 

“Called what?”

 

“Stuffed animals—you call them stuffies?”

 

“— _What_? Yeah, I guess?”

 

“Holy shit, that’s adorable!”

 

Keith trips a bit, ears flushing hot. He almost crashes into a display of blenders because _Lance McClain called him adorable_. In the middle of Target. While fleeing down an aisle of cookware during a toy lightsaber battle.

 

Yeah, he really shouldn’t be getting butterflies over this. But here he is anyway, grinning like an idiot and against all sense of shame having a ton of fun—because that’s what Lance does: he makes everything an adventure.

 

He’s so caught up in the gleeful absurdity of the situation that he doesn’t realize when he turns the corner that Lance has come to a halt and nearly runs into his back. Keith opens his mouth to ask him _what the hell_ when he sees an older guy at the end of the aisle wearing a red vest and a less-than-enthused look on his already drained-looking face.

 

“Oh, look!” Lance says suddenly, pointing to the lower shelf. “ _There_ those pesky heaters are! Thank you for your helpful assistance good sir. We’re just gonna take these and…go?” Lance turns to Keith and mouths _run_ , before grabbing two of the boxes and high-tailing it the way they came.

 

The man turns his icy stare to Keith, looking at the lightsaber clutched in his hand with obvious disapproval. Keith slowly places it down on a nearby shelf with a sheepish smile, picks up two more space heaters, and bolts.

 

* * *

 

The relief when Keith flicks on the heaters is immediate. The tiny apartment after ten minutes jumps an easy twenty degrees with all four of the heaters going on full-blast, and he just lays in the middle of his floor with the coffee table pushed out of the way so he’s in the dead center of where the warm air’s blowing.

 

“I can’t believe you got us kicked out of Target.” He says to the ceiling.

 

“Hey,” Lance admonishes from the kitchen where he's busy putting away groceries. He still won't let Keith see what's in the bags, and he stretches out just that much farter to absorb more of the heat out of spite. “I got us _politely asked to leave_ from Target.”

 

“Same difference.”

 

Lance waves his hand, pursing his lips. “ _Pssh,_ it’s just because it’s the off season. I’ve literally seen a frat reenact that one scene from _Ranbo_ in the clothing section and not a single employee batted an eye. I’m telling you, retail just sucks the life out of you.”

 

“So does the barista life,” Keith says from the floor. He turns onto his stomach and pillows his chin on his arms. He feels warm and sleepy, like a sunbathing cat. He peeks up through his bangs at Lance as he continues to put away groceries in the kitchen. “Just the other day I had some douche ask me to top off his coffee right as I was closing.”

 

“Hey! My visits to your humble coffee abode are the highlight of your day and you _know it_ ,” Lance protests.

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Keith mumbles, snuggling down into his arms. He feels Lance poke him in the side with what must be his foot. He bats at it lazily, rolling over.

 

“ _Up-pup-pup_ , no sleeping, mister. We have a very important schedule this evening.”

 

Keith opens one eye to stare up at where Lance is looming over him, haloed by the overhead lights. He’s dressed in sweatpants, hair still damp from the snow but eyes twinkling as he holds up two DVD cases that Keith has to squint to read through the haze of his almost-nap.

 

“Now since I’m such a great guy, I’ll let you pick," Lance grins, and dammit, it's dazzling. " _Elf_ , or _Mean Girls?_ ”


End file.
